


Hourglass Momentum

by stardropdream



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Hate Sex, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't anything he wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hourglass Momentum

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ October 16, 2010. 
> 
> Written with the prompt: hate sex that wasn't actually hate sex.

  
It wasn’t _anything._   
  
Not anything but the press of a body against a body. It wasn’t camaraderie. It wasn’t friendship. It certainly wasn’t love. It was only hate, it was only taking what he wanted and being done with it. That was all. That was all he needed, that was all he wanted. And if he ever wanted anything else, it wouldn’t be with _that human_ that he would want or need it.   
  
This was something of which Kamui was certain.   
  
And yet—it was different, in those moments. In that momentum, he forgot, for just one brief moment. He forgot, as he pulled at Fuuma’s wrist, as he dragged the human into his sights, into his grasp—and how willingly Fuuma came to him. How willingly Fuuma let Kamui push him to the wall, or to the ground—or anywhere. How willingly he smiled at Kamui, how willingly he let Kamui bite at his mouth until they were kissing and that is all—  
  
How different it all was, in those moments. When they stumbled back together, ignoring the smell of death and decay and the grit of the air, thick with dust and blood. They never talked much, during those moments. Sometimes Fuuma would speak—inconsequential, inane words. But his silence was the strangest of all, left Kamui feeling oddly unguarded and guarded at once. Made him wish that, above all else, Fuuma would just speak. Speak inconsequential words, inane words—words he could forget. Words that do not matter.   
  
Even when they were in the middle of slabs of debris, with Kamui peeling the clothes inch by inch from Fuuma’s skin, Fuuma didn’t speak. He only smiled, in those moments.   
  
“You shouldn’t hide your neck,” Kamui said, hissed—his voice soft fire. He dragged the fabric of Fuuma’s shirt up and over his head.  
  
There was a smile waiting for Kamui, once the shirt was gone. “Oh?”  
  
Kamui didn’t offer a reason, because the reason was obvious as he ducked his head, forcing Fuuma to his knees so he could suck at the blood pumping through Fuuma’s veins, mouth pressed to where neck met shoulder. He drank, and Fuuma just breathed a sigh.   
  
There were quiet hisses, Kamui’s mouth pillowing against his skin. His movements were rough, harsh—shoving, pushing, taking. Fuuma never resisted him, which in the back of Kamui’s mind he wondered if that was a bad thing. But his blood was intoxicating. He drowned.   
  
They didn’t speak, even as Kamui muttered more irritations at Fuuma’s clothing, at the clump of dust and wasteland around them, the thud of weapons falling to the ground as the hands fisted into hair and against the curve of spines. Fuuma only smiled when Kamui hissed out quiet insults to him. (“You are the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met.” Or, “I can’t stand the sight of you.” Or, “Stop smiling like that—it’s disgusting.”)  
  
(“You’re such a bad liar,” was what Fuuma always said in reply. Smiling. Always smiling.)  
  
The world around them was hard, rough—the slabs of rock Fuuma laid across dug into his back as Kamui climbed up over him, biting at his skin and kissing it without a sense of warmth—a warmth he tried to dwindle in his chest before it could work its way free. Yet, despite how hard the world around them was, there was something surprisingly soft, then, about the way Kamui climbed up over Fuuma. The harsh words fell away, forgotten, the biting cut of teeth and claws disappeared, for one brief moment. Kamui quieted down, and kissed with less bite and more real, actual kissing. Something changed.   
  
There was no sound, save for them—the way their bodies moved together, the way that, for one brief moment, Fuuma’s smile fell away and he said, with just a touch of irony to his voice, “You’re blushing.”  
  
“No.”  
  
The sound of skin touching, the sound of Kamui’s breath coming out in short pants as he bit back the rest of his words before he said something he would regret. The sound of Fuuma’s soft moans, muffled when Kamui’s mouth captured his again. Sometimes Kamui could manage a few sentences, something that could have been an insult, if the voice hadn’t been so impossibly quiet and almost achingly tender. Almost. Not quite there yet. The words would drift away, would be lost in moans and harsh breath.   
  
They would never talk about it, later. Those moments melted away, blew away with the sandstorms and the fallen buildings. Even if they melted away, there was always something left behind. After it was finished, there were the shared moments when Fuuma knocked his boots against the slabs of dirt, to make sure nothing had crawled into it, or the moment when Kamui would shake his hair out, knock away the sand.   
  
Sometimes, Fuuma would stay. He would stay until the sun rose—(“It’s dangerous out there, at night.”) Most times, Fuuma would leave, either right after or once Kamui had regained enough focus to hiss out a quiet _get away from me._ Sometimes, he would leave as soon as Kamui fell asleep—something Kamui never said he did, because that would be too vulnerable. He’d fall asleep, though, and when he woke up, Fuuma would be gone. Not forever, because the next time they saw one another, it’d be to fight, to exchange fists and that stupid smile that Fuuma gave him, that was an aching shadow of the smile Fuuma sometimes gave him some times, right before Kamui remembered to tell him to get out.   
  
The next morning, the next day, the next week, month, year—Kamui would constantly have to remind himself that it was all nothing. It wasn’t anything. There was nothing that he wanted from these things, nothing that he could possibly want.   
  
It wasn’t anything he wanted.


End file.
